by Auden Eagerton engin akyurt I can trace the tree rings in my palms back to your sharp-toothed head. When my mother blinked, I saw you glinting back at me. As a child, I took the resemblance as creation myth, proof of every axe-beat in my blood. In the Fall River house, there’s a bed and breakfast now. I could lie down in the roost bedded with dead pigeon feathers and feel right at home. At my parents’ house, they make a museum of their own. My father splits his eye over di